


Clearing the Pipes

by redscudery



Series: Redscudery's Rare Pair Bazaar [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Super Mario & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Light BDSM, M/M, Magic, Not My Fault, Past James Sholto/John Watson, Size Kink, d/s dynamics, ish, laying pipe, look i don't make the rules, plumbing, well kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 04:59:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11502249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/pseuds/redscudery
Summary: Major James Sholto has been plunged in deep despair since the tragedy of Afghanistan. His former lover, John Watson, sends him a gift in the shape of a plumber.





	Clearing the Pipes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vanetti (lereya)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lereya/gifts).



> I don't know how this happened. I blame Vanetti and her merry porn henchmen on Twitter (here's a tweet if you want to see the aesthetic: https://twitter.com/Scudery/status/875532018200739841)  
> Happy belated birthday ya precious weirdo. <3

 

The sun was already burning the morning mist off the garden when James Sholto pushed back his curtains.

He was sorry to see the mist go; bright days were difficult, and unrest lay heavy upon him already. He swallowed his pills with a gulp, and left the room, his halting step dragging along the carpet and the stairs, his mind unmoored from the world around him.

 

Mrs. Fine wasn’t in the kitchen, but the tea was ready. He poured himself a cup, willing it to steady him. Three breaths in, three breaths out. _Keep it together, James._

 “Must be good tea,” came a rough, accented voice, out of nowhere. Caught mid-breath, Sholto put down his tea and turned. If he were to die today, he would die. It was no more than he deserved.

 When he saw the man in the doorway, however, he relaxed. It was clearly the plumber Mrs. Fine had called for the broken washing machine.

“You’re Luigi.” He was slender, with a truly spectacular mustache. He wore only overalls and a green cap—no shirt.

Luigi nodded, lifting his toolbox with a smile and a nod.

"You come highly recommended. The housekeeper will show you to the basement."

“Right,” Luigi nodded again. “I can wait.”

Sholto looked at him more closely. Was he imagining the warmth in those brown eyes?

“I can take you down, I suppose.” he heard himself say.

“Thank you,” Luigi said, and smiled more broadly. Goodness, he had beautiful arms. Sholto set down his tea, smoothing his hands nervously over his pale blue shirt, and gestured to the basement door.

“Follow me.”

 

It had been an age since he had last gone down to the basement, but he went, shoving any lingering nerves away with each step. The echo of their feet on the stairs was loud but not upsetting. The movement of someone behind him was upsetting but there was nothing to be done about that.

He shook it off. If he could not live in civil society, he could at least pretend to be civil.

When they rounded the corner into the laundry room, he drew a sigh of relief. The room was larger than he remembered, and it had windows. He didn’t feel claustrophobic here at least.

Reaching out awkwardly, he lifted the lid of the washer.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what’s wrong with it.” Lord he sounded curt. “I’m sorry,” he added, “I suppose you will.”

“I know what’s wrong,” Luigi said. He set his toolbox down on the tiles with a gentle clank, and came over to stand beside Sholto. “Pipes are stiff from disuse.”

“But… the maid must wash at least every day. I have a large household.”

“Not washer pipes.” There was definitely warmth in those brown eyes now.

“I beg your pardon?” _How ridiculous I am_ , Sholto thought.

“I am told to say to you, ‘Don’t shut yourself away,’”

Sholto drew back, openmouthed.

“Who said that?”

“I was sent to you. To open you up. He told me, this man hides himself though he has done nothing wrong.”

Sholto’s heart hammered in his chest.

“When you say ‘open up’…”

Luigi smiled now; there was no malice in his face.

“Open up in the way that is pleasure. If you like,” he said.

“Who sent you?”

“Can you not guess? He opened you too, before, he said.”

"John--I don't understand."  
"He said," Luigi approached. His overall strap had slid from his shoulder, "he said you needed some pipe laid.”

Sholto froze, a myriad of emotions jousting in his chest. He wanted to laugh, to hit, to hide, to seize this lissome man before him and lose himself. Bloody John Watson. So fucking hidebound, and then this. He remembered those hands on his skin. Small hands, but so firm. Insisting.

And now, he was insisting by proxy.

“You would do this for him? You don’t know me.” Somehow, Sholto’s hand was on Luigi’s now.

“I do not need to.” Luigi placed one slim, strong hand at his waist, just at the edge of Sholto’s blue t-shirt. “You are a handsome man, and pleasure is my reason for being. I exist to …entertain, one way or another.” He leaned in close. He was small enough that he had to tilt his face upwards to kiss—like John in this way as well—and Sholto dropped his head towards him.

The smell of plumber's glue clung to him, and Sholto inhaled.

“Very well,” he said, softly.   
"Excellent." Luigi whispered, his mustache a thrill on Sholto's ear. “Now John, he says that you like to be taken.”  Sholto drew a trembling breath. “He says to hold you down and make you feel.”

“I can…”

“He says you like your cock pinned. He says you can come from the smallest friction.” Luigi crowded closer. Sholto knew, now that his own interest was clear, pressed up against Luigi’s stomach; he also felt something hard and long against his thigh. If it was a pipe wrench, it was the biggest he’d ever encountered. If it was a cock, well, his mouth watered.

“Is it true?” Luigi’s teeth worried at Sholto’s earlobe.

“Please,” was all that Sholto could say.

“It will be so good,” Luigi said, and, stepping back, pulled Sholto’s shirt up over his head in a smooth gesture. Sholto let it be done, and then stood, quivering, as Luigi’s hands made their way to his trouser buttons. Luigi smoothed his trousers down, and then, as if soothing a frightened animal, he caressed the length of Sholto’s body, covering every inch of his arms and thighs, back and belly. Sholto could only give himself up to the touch; how long had it been since someone had caressed him in this way? Not since John, and John had been angrier. _Take this_ , he had said, pinning Sholto on the floor of the tent, and Sholto had. He had been less broken then; they both had, and John’s fury had warmed them both.

Now, Luigi’s hands were soft like butterflies, and even his firm grip on Sholto’s hips as he turned him towards the washer was firm with understanding, not anger. He spread Sholto’s legs, and—bliss—with one quick tug pulled Sholto’s cock down so the whole length was against the cool white metal.

Then he stepped away.

“Lovely. Your cock so dark against the machine, your arse so open.” Luigi bent to his toolbox. The sound of the metal latches seemed to be a promise, and Sholto shivered. “I will make it more open.”

A click. Hot fingers and cool lube slid down the crack of Sholto’s arse; so much lube, rolling down over Sholto’s bollocks and dripping onto the floor. Luigi’s fingers, dextrous, teased at his opening. He shuddered.

“More,” he said, but Luigi did not increase the pressure; instead, he teased, in soft, arrhythmic movements.

“Let your wanting go,” he said. “Let your mind free. Only say if you don’t want me to do anything. To stop.”

“You haven’t started,” Sholto said, and was astonished at the growl in his voice.

“There is time.” Luigi said, and removed his fingers. Sholto groaned with frustration.

Then he heard the clink of overall fastenings and the rush and clank of something against the floor—had it been a pipe wrench after all?

Luigi stepped forward and pressed his hips to Sholto’s. No, no it had not. Or rather, if it had been a wrench, the cock it had concealed was of a similar gauge: huge.

“Please,” Sholto said again.

“You like that.” There was no smugness in Luigi’s voice, just affirmation. He increased the pressure, sliding his enormous cock up into Sholto’s slippery crack. Sholto felt faint as its true size became evident; even with his legs spread, it pushed his arse apart. His desire spiked high, and he ground his cock against the cool metal of the washing machine, the pain of the awkward angle heightening his pleasure.

As Sholto’s movements grew faster, Luigi withdrew, prompting a muttered “Bastard”.  He only laughed, setting his cock downwards to slide behind Sholto’s bollocks and his fingers to a more purposeful exploration of Sholto’s hole.

Sholto stopped moving and waited, breathless, as Luigi spread him open. As though he read in Sholto’s mind, the first breach was not a gentle one; rather, it was a blunt opening with two slippery fingers. He gasped and pushed back, a wordless pleading.

“Good,” Luigi nipped his shoulder. “Open yourself.” A third finger joined the first two and as Luigi pushed them in, Sholto half-closed his eyes.

He could never have said how long Luigi opened him, but when he removed his fingers and replaced it with the mushroom head of his enormous cock, Sholto’s mind began to slip its moorings, all thoughts, all words suspended. His whole body rode the wave of the delicious weight splitting him in half, stretching him wide and allowing him to become a creature of sensation. Cold metal, hot flesh, a perfect symphony of friction inside and out—he was everything and nothing at once.

He held steady, whole in the golden light, as Luigi pinned him and ravished his arse with exquisite insistence. It was as though he and John were fused, and Sholto taking his pleasure from both.

Then, he felt a darker shadow, the rise of his climax. The intensity drew him back into his body, into a clear sense of his agonizing desire. He struggled, arching back towards Luigi in a bid for more, and Luigi hummed a note of urgent satisfaction into the skin of his back.

“You’re open now,” Luigi panted, “Now you lose yourself to find yourself.” He gave one last masterful thrust, and Sholto shattered into a million pieces.

 

When he opened his eyes, he was alone, wrapped in the softest of blankets and comfortable on the window seat of his room. He sat up, ran his good hand through his hair, and stared; if it weren’t for the sore stretch of his arse, he would have thought he had imagined the whole affair.

He looked out the window again; the sky was bright and welcoming, the garden bursting with life. A deep peace suffused his soul.

 

How had John done it? He would never know. But he would always be grateful.

 


End file.
